For not that, which men covet most, is best, / Nor that thing worst, which men do most refuse; / But fittest is, that all contented rest, / With that they hold: each half is a fortune in his breast.

Most glorious Lord of lyfe, that on this day / Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, / And having harrowed hell, didst bring away / Captivity thence captive, us to win: / This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin.

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedy crop of care.

Then came fair May, the fairest maid on ground, / Decked all with dainties of her seasons pride, / And throwing flowers out of her lap around : / Upon two brethrens’ shoulders she did ride.

Joy may you have and gentle hearts content Of your loves couplement: And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile.

Who will not mercy unto others show. How can he mercy ever hope to have?

It is the mind that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor.

What cannot be cured must be endured.

The poets' scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.

I was promised on a time - to have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.